


Flesh Spread Thin Over Aching Bones (A Song in the Wind)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, The Tower of Cirith Ungol, basically your typical cirith ungol angst, follows the books more than the movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22226707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: At the top of the dark tower of Cirith Ungol, only shadows remain.But there is a voice, a delicate melody that sings of a time before.The ring is gone and all Frodo wants is to see Sam one last time.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 16
Kudos: 87





	Flesh Spread Thin Over Aching Bones (A Song in the Wind)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back again with some more angst.
> 
> Really debated going more movie!verse with this one, because while I absolutely detest the splitting up of Sam and Frodo over the lembas bread it REALLY makes for some angst when Frodo's alone in Cirith Ungol.
> 
> But I cannot stand that part of the films so I just couldn't write about it, hence why this is more based around book!canon than movie!canon.

At the top of one of the blackened towers of Cirith Ungol, Frodo lies flat; flesh hot and alive, as if it is melting off his bones and leaving only charred remains behind.

The fortress is large, cavernous. Made up of twists and turns and hidden pathways. He can remember being dragged up stairs, flights and flights of them, for his scalp still hurts where the Orcs had pulled on his hair, tugging him upwards; higher and higher to the very top. But, other than that, he cannot make out where he is. He cannot get out, get back.

He doesn't know where Sam is.

Part of him, the bits and pieces of him that have been touched by the ring's dark magic, does not care. Why does it matter where Sam is? The ring is gone, he does not have it anymore. The world will fall into ruin and they will all be doomed. He won't have his ring, so why would he need his Sam?

(He flinches, in that moment.  _ His _ Sam. Although he had not spoken it aloud, he had thought it.  _ His. _ Something that belongs to him. He doesn't have many belongings, not anymore.  _ His _ ring, he had thought too. And he wants both of them)

But the pieces of him that remain homebound, the memories of the green-gold Shire and his little smial on Bag Shot Row, want Sam beside him more than anything. If the ring had gone, sullied by the enemy, it truly will be over. Even still, if he is to face the end as it comes, he wants it to be with Sam. Besides Sam. He needs him, they need each other.

But there are two wants in his mind. Two people, like he has been split in half.  _ Gollum,  _ he is reminded of. Gollum with those lamplike eyes, bulbous and shining and always watching. Gollum and Smeagol, two fighting sides in one ragged little body.

He can barely move, for weariness and pain drag him down, but he can feel the sharp lines of his ribs against his fingertips. He can count the bones, each individual bump, solid and hard and painful.

His skin still burns. His flesh is leaving him.

_ Gollum,  _ his mind supplies again.  _ Like Gollum. It will continue to disappear; until there is nothing left. This is what the ring has done to you. This is it. _

And Sam. Sweet, honey-gold Sam. The one who, underneath the dirt and grime and fire, still smells like the dear old Shire. Like spring mornings and sunrise, the sun in a place where it never shines. He had led Sam to his death, brought him across the shore of Amon Hen and begun the long trek to Mordor, without their guides, without the safety they brought.

Two unlikely creatures on an unlikely journey. Frodo is struck by Bilbo's old stories.  _ There and Back Again,  _ he is reminded of. But he fears that they will never get  _ there,  _ and there will be no coming back.

_ And he lived happily ever after, until the end of his days. _

There's a squeak from one of the room's corners. The trapdoor is lifted and an Orc, skin bluish and mottled and thick like snakeskin, rises from the abyss.

The ring has been taken. His clothes are gone, stolen.  _ Sam isn't here.  _ Everything he had known has been taken from him. What more could they want?

It is then that Frodo spies the whip in the Orc's gnarled hands. Long and thin, connecting to a dull silver handle that glints like malice in the gloom. His skin burns afresh and he can feel the welts before contact is ever made.

He will die here. This is the end, and he is alone.

x

Time does not exist here in the darkness of Cirith Ungol. Before, he had relied on Sam to tell him the days. Of course, even then, they had never been quite sure, but Sam had a way of making Frodo feel at ease. When the sun had not risen on that first morning, when the darkness of Mordor and the burning ashes of Sauron's growing power had smothered out the light, Sam had been by his side. 'Go back to sleep', he had whispered. 'Don't you worry yourself none. Your Sam is here.'

He misses Sam more than anything in the world.

He cannot figure out how many days he has been here, up in this tower. The whip had hurt, burned against his skin like molten lava. He had tasted sick in his mouth, the acrid taste of vomit and something metal, like copper pennies and silver buttons. Blood. 

He still cannot figure out where he is. The Orcs give him drink when he grows weary. He does not know what it is, for he has never tasted anything quite like it, but all it does is give him enough energy to feel their hands; calloused and roughed and scarred in all the wrong ways (they do not offer comfort, not like Sam's had) and he can feel their coolness on his burning skin. Cold and hard, not fresh. Like the scar on his shoulder. Like blocks of ice left under his skin, shards of cool, stabbing metal. They touch him and claw at him and their nails cut through his skin like a hot knife through butter; slicing through the tender remains of tissue-paper flesh.

There is not much of him left, now. Skin pulled translucent over white bones, tight like a drum and waiting to snap. Not a piece of him has been left unmarred. It is all scarred, all sullied by their journey.

He is broken, not the hobbit he once was, and the Orc's touches of ice remind him of that.

He can't escape. He doesn't know where to go. He must find the ring - if it is still his to be found. He has to get out of here, leave. But he fears that if he ever finds the strength to leave this dreadful place, that he will discover that nothing remains on the outside.

Sauron must have the ring. The Orcs will have taken it, with all his clothes. They will have eyed the gold around his neck (that never seemed to shine any less bright, even when the lights of his own eyes had faded dull grey) and taken it, for they had been searching for it for so long. Amon Hen looms in his mind; where they had abandoned the fellowship. That was when the true dangers of the ring had been unveiled. When Frodo had seen its call (that he understood all to well) glint in the fair face of Boromir.

He would have died with the guilt in his heart. His sobs of apology, the Boromir that was free of the ring's power had won out in the end; but he had died. He died knowing that he had tried to take the ring. It had twisted him, it had twisted Gollum for centuries. Neither one could change what had happened. He had seen both suffer, both go through the pain of desire, the pain of the ring's whispered words. 

He wondered if he could ever come back from it. If he could have lived; if he could have found happiness; after it was all done.

But the ring is gone and he has failed. Besides, his hands tell him all he needs to know. Long and thin. Not slender, not delicate like they had once been. No. Ragged, twisted, boned and fleshless. Gollum's hands.

The Orcs touch him and it  _ hurts.  _ He is alone here. Trapped, like a damsel in a tower.

He wishes this were a fairytale. One that would be found amongst Bilbo's well-loved collection, not out here in the very mouth of death, with his skin burning away like paper and Orc hands peeling away what remains.

If it were a fairytale, his knight in shining armour would come and save him. His Sam.

But Sam is no knight in shining armour. He never has been. He doesn't want to be. Even with all they have been through, he is still a gardener. Someone of the earth, who grows and heals and saves. Gardeners don't save damsels.

He is not a damsel.

He is alone.

x

Days blur into one and hours stretch like a taut string on a bow. He cannot discern how long he has been in this tower. It could be scarcely a few hours. It could be a lifetime. He cannot tell.

But he can hear arguing. Raised voices, a gale on the stale air. Rushing like wind, sharp and cold and furious. Orc voices are deep and scratched and they ring out like a dented bell, chiming in all the wrong notes and distorting out in twisted melody. The clink of metal, the drawing of swords. Yells, shouts. Thunderous footsteps, thudding of bodies against stone floor.

But there is something else, amongst the swirling of death and hatred and doom. A voice rings out. Wavering, soft, uncertain, but it is a voice. Singing; a Shire song. The words are of home and all Frodo can think of is Sam.

He wonders if it is real, or if he has imagined it. Made it up. Gone mad.  _ Madder _ .

The trapdoor opens and a shape looms above him. Tall, mottled skin, bloodshot eyes. The Orc smiles at him, teeth like shards of broken glass, rotted and bloody. The grin stretches their face, splits into two and hard wrinkles line the edges of their battle-worn skin. They speak, growling out something Frodo does not hear, for he spies that dull glint of silver held in their hand. The whip cracks, a mockery of what is yet to come, and the unhealed welt on Frodo's skin seems to peel from his very soul, charred and black and sticky against his skin; a shadow he cannot remove.

The room is painted red. The whip is raised, the light reflects off that dull silver handle. It almost glints gold.

It is brought back, tightened. Like a snake preparing to strike. 

_ Singing,  _ the creature mentions. It is the only word he can pick out amongst the rest that blur together. Singing. There had been something. There had been hope.

The whip is brought down with a crack of lightning. Like thunder, the pain is not far behind.

It cuts him to the bone, blood hot and pulsing under his skin. He does not know how loud he screams, or for how long, but he does know he is doing it. The vibrations, he can feel them, deep in his throat. Rubbing his insides dry, choked and painful and empty. He wants his voice to clatter about the tower. To shriek like a banshee and shatter everything within it, as if it were glass.

But then, there's another cry. A scuffle, the sounds of scrabbling feet and clinking metal.

A dull thud resounds throughout the tower and Frodo carefully peels his eyes open, lifting his head from the rags that had made his mattress for far too long. 

There, standing there in the red light, is Sam. 

_ Samwise Gamgee, the gardener's son. Here, now. In the land of Mordor where nothing grows. _

His dark skin is painted scarlet in the fiery light, bathing him in burning heat. A halo of gold curls atop his head, his matted and dirtied hair glowing bright like the golden sunlight. His eyes, a deep hazel flecked with threads of green and yellow, are twisted in fear, in worry. He stands there, feet slightly apart, hands clenched tightly by his hips, face wrought with concern.

It's Sam, and Frodo has never seen anything more beautiful in all of his days.

Sam quickly goes to him, kneeling down close enough that Frodo can see the faint, puckered scar on his forehead. A reminder of Moria, of a time before the ring had consumed all. Frodo longs to trace it with his fingertips, feel the slight raising of skin and bring it down to the curve of Sam's cheeks, once rounded out with flesh and fat but now deep and hollow. He wants to trace his fingers over those lips, cracked and bruised and bloodied, scabbed over with old blood and streaked with ash and mud. But he cannot. His arms won't move, his limbs feel solid, like sheets of heavy metal or heavy loads of timber. He is tired. The ring is gone. He can't move.

If this is the end, truly the end, then he wants it to be with Sam. 

He must let out a groan or a whimper, or any sound at all, for Sam's broad hands cup his face, lifting his chin upwards. "What did they do to you?" He murmurs under his breath, whispering to himself.

Frodo is reminded of those days in Bag End, where Sam would sit outside in the sunshine, hands amongst fresh soil and delicate roots. He'd always spoken to himself then, whispering sweet nothings to the fragile flowers, so fleeting in their beauty.

Now Sam is whispering to him. For now he is fragile, he is delicate, and the light inside of him is fleeting. It is disappearing and Frodo does not know how to stop it.

Sam's hands run over the cuts and scratches on Frodo's body. The bruises lining his forearms, the gashes across his shoulders. His eyes darken as he takes in the two lines on Frodo's back. Two raw, red marks that have been pushed deep into the skin on his back. Frodo can't see them, but he can feel them, and they feel like fire. 

"I'll kill 'em. I'll kill 'em all." Sam's voice was low, dangerous. A tone Frodo has never heard from his sweet Samwise's lips before. It is then that Frodo realises that he is not the only one who has changed. 

Sam with his heads amongst the clouds and hands in the dirt. Sam with a shortsword in his hands, Sam carefully combing through the tangles of Bill's ragged mane. Sam with cuts and scars on his feet and blood matted in his hair. Sam who can't swim but waded through water, Sam who bound Gollum up and held his hands around his neck.

Sam who has scars, just like Frodo, that run deeper than just the skin.

Sam who has changed. Sam who is damaged. Sam who has sacrificed everything for him. 

_ Stouthearted Sam,  _ Frodo thinks.  _ That is who he will be, in the stories. If there is a world to tell stories in, After. _

He hisses in pain as Sam helps him stand, arms still strong and lined with thick muscle; but much thinner than they once were. He leans against Sam's front for support, feet still finding their hold on the cold floor. He can feel the jab of ribs against his hands. Sam's roundness is gone. Replaced by hollowness, empty gaps where he had once been soft and full and happy. But he's still warm and safe. He's still  _ Sam,  _ even if everything isn't as it once was.

As he gathers his own bearings, legs eventually managing to hold up his own weight, he takes a few steps back. His head is held down to the floor, eyes trained on his own feet. 

When he looks up once more, a scream strangles in his throat.

What had once been Sam has now been replaced by an Orc. Their skin is purple in the fiery light. Frodo thinks of lilacs and crocuses in Bag End garden. Lavender and heather, the scent of home. The figure of the Orc wavers and Frodo catches a glimpse of hazel eyes.

But the Orc leers above him and Frodo cannot think of flora, he cannot remember the green grass of the Shire nor the scent of rainfall in spring or the sound of honeybees buzzing.

Purple, he thinks.  _ Purple.  _ Like bruises on skin, cuts that won't heal. Infection, dirty,  _ ruined.  _

The Orc steps closer and Frodo clenches his fists. Adrenaline rises like a bucket of cold water to the face. He's alert. Ready to strike.

The Orc comes nearer and Frodo raises his hand. 

There's a thud. A crack, bone against bone and flesh against flesh. The Orc lets out a yelp, frightened and scared and surprised. Frodo's heart stops in his chest.

_ What has he done? _

Sam is hunched before him, hands pressed upon his cheek and face averted away. Frodo feels sick. 

"Oh Sam, w-what.. I'm so sorry." It is him who takes the steps forward, hands reaching out to touch Sam's own, to pull them carefully away from his face.

But as his fingers brush against scarred knuckles, Sam flinches. "S-Sam?" Frodo breathes, pain twisting at his heart.

_ Look at you. You've hurt him. You've hurt Sam. You… you monster. _

"I'm so sorry Sam, I… I thought I saw an Orc… I didn't- I,  _ oh Sam _ , I wasn't myself." He blinks roughly, cursing at the stinging of his eyes, the tears that glisten there. "D-don't worry youself none, sir. Just caught me by surprise, is all. Don't you worry yourself now." Sam moves, turning to face Frodo.

There too, there is a brightness to Sam's eyes and a pinkness to the rims that can't be explained by the lifeless drafts or fiery light. There is an expression of hurt across his face, lips downcast and cheek reddening where Frodo had struck him. Blood pools to the surface in little pinpricks. It will bruise later, Frodo knows. Another reminder, another symbol of what he has lost and what he has done.

But understanding flitters across Sam's face. A gentle expression, one that Frodo remembers from before the ring was ever his to bear. One from the Shire, one that has followed him across the far reaches of Middle Earth. 

Sam  _ understands.  _ Of course he does. Even when Frodo had just struck him, saw his body transform into the hulking nightmare of an Orcs. Even after everything they've been through, Sam is always there, always by his side.

Loyal, sweet, caring Samwise. 

"Oh, Sam." He whispers, stumbling against him, unbothered by his own unclothed state. "Oh, Sam. How can I ever thank you enough?" He mumbles into the coarse fabric of Sam's shirt. It smells, acidic and bloody, like dirt and grime and death, but underneath it all Frodo can smell something soft and sweet, like caramel apples in the autumn and bags of sage and mint and basil.

It's Sam. He's here. But-

"The ring!" He gasps. "Sam! They took the-" 

"Shh, it's alright, sir." Frodo tilts his head upwards, gazing at Sam through lowered lashes. "T'was not my place, sir, I know but…" He pauses, voice wavering. "I thought you were dead, I did. I thought that… that-" He chokes back a sob. "I'm sorry Mr. Frodo, sir… but…" He shifts away, pushing Frodo ever so gently from his front. He reaches around his neck, fingers pulling at something underneath his shirt. "I took the ring." 

Frodo gasps, eyes trained on that unforgettable gold. It gleams, bright and clean and pure. (although Frodo knows that its looks are deceiving)  _ He wants it. That ring does not belong to Sam! It's his! His ring! He was given it, it is his task! That ring is his! It's his! It's his, it's his, it's his! _

Sam pulls it off from around his neck, grasping the dirtied chain with his broad fingers. He holds it out. Frodo can see the reluctance in his eyes, feel the shortening of his breaths.

Frodo snatches it from him, like a drowning man in the sea, he clings to it like a lifeline.  _ Mine. _ He whispers to himself.  _ My ring, my precious.  _

But there is a brighter gold, a brighter light, in the black towers of Cirith Ungol.

While the ring is clean and fresh, tempting in its unearthly shimmer, Frodo looks back to Sam.

His face is open, weary, tired. Frodo can see the deep bags under his eyes. Bruised from purple to almost black, like deep dark shadows across his face. His hair is matted and tangled, congealed with blood and dirt and grime. His skin is streaked with ash, riddled with scratch after scratch and scar after scar.

Yet, somehow, despite all of this; Sam seems to glow brighter than any old ring.

He's got his own type of magic, deep within him. A magic of brining life, of bringing hope. He does not hold the promise of power that the ring does. He does not whisper of raging armies or heroic desires. He does not speak of unimaginable strength, he does not tempt with falsehoods and lies.

Instead, he is soft. Gentle, almost unnoticeable. If one were not looking for it, they would miss it, for Sam's own type of magic was quiet and unassuming, shy and hidden from view.

But Frodo could see it. He could see it back in the shire, with spring petals in his hair. He can see it now. 

He puts the ring on, returns it once more around his neck. The weight is instantaneous. He feels himself dragged down, pulled to the floor by its burden.

But he stays standing and, with his eyes locked with Sam's own, he moves the ring so it lies over his shoulder, resting against his back. 

Sam had borne the ring, if only for the briefest of moments. Frodo never wants Sam to feel that weight again. Not if he can help it.

He steps forward once more, flinging his arms around Sam's waist. He buries his nose into the crook of Sam's collarbone, inhaling deeply. Sam brings his arms around his neck, careful to not disturb neither the ring nor the gashes on his back. 

"Sam. How can I ever thank you? My dearest,  _ dearest _ Sam." 

He stills at his slip up. Tensing as he feels Sam still beneath him. 

Sam moves his arms away and Frodo feels his heart drop. But before he can apologise, before he can step aside and pretend he had not spoken, Sam's fingers are against his chin. He tilts his head up, bringing their foreheads together.

Frodo's nose brushes against Sam's and his breathing grows deeper, breaths growing heavier with his quickening heart. He can feel the puff of Sam's breaths against his cheek, the rise and fall of his chest against his own. He can see the darkness of Sam's eyes, an expression across his face that Frodo had only ever dreamed of.

Sam tilts his head ever so slightly before his lips push carefully against Frodo's own.

Sam's lips are chapped and taste of grime (Frodo's sure his are the same) and when Frodo's hand sneaks up to Sam's hair, his fingers become tangled in the matted mess. It's an awkward kiss. They're in the wrong place at the wrong time and they should really be getting a move on. They clash teeth and bump noses and its clumsy and messy and strange.

It's the best kiss Frodo has ever had.

They pull apart, Sam's forehead resting against Frodo's own. They stay like that for a moment, savouring what might be their last moment of peace, if this can even be called such a thing.

But, all too soon, they have to pull away. The Orcs could be back at any moment now, and if they weren't careful they'd soon find themselves completely outnumbered. 

"Let me get you some clothes, Mr. Frodo. While I'm not complainin' at the sight of you in naught but your skin, I think t'would be better off if we find you somthin' to wear." Quickly, he offers a quick peck against Frodo's lips, before disappearing down the ladder with promises to return as quickly as he can.

Frodo stares after him incredulously.

He looks at the ring, it's gold sheen a facade for the suffering that lingers beneath its shiny surface. He thinks of Sam, with his bright eyes and soft smile.

_ I choose life, _ he thinks. 

And, for the first time in what seems like an age, he feels as if he can really heal. 

_ I can get better. I can go home. With Sam; for without him I would be lost. _

**Author's Note:**

> Imma just keep churning out crap for these two because I absolutely love them and would honestly die for them like


End file.
